The Death Wish
by Rudyeie
Summary: The Kalos region is undergoing an Era of Darkness. The Flare have gained power over the land and ceased the public production of Poké Balls. Trainers dwindle as the Flare wipe out them and their Pokémon in ambushes and battles to the death. To be caught with a Pokémon and not be a member of the Flare is to have a death wish—but this is the story of how one boy endures.
1. Chapter I

**_Author's Note_**_— I've put a dark twist on the world of Pok__émon. I know this story will not be for everyone,_ _but I'd love more than anything to hear the thoughts of you who read through this mad tale. Brace yourself._**  
**

* * *

**Chapter I**

There is nothing I hate more than traveling at night.

Actually, that's not true. There are far worse things in the world—dark and wicked and unthinkable things—that I hate much more than traveling at night. I wouldn't even mind venturing into the nighttime if only the dark and wicked and unthinkable things didn't show their horrid faces every time the sun slipped below the horizon. Dusk is no longer a time of peace and beauty around here; it is a time of warning. It is a time of deadbolts slamming into place and blinds flurrying shut and lights snapping off, always leaving Lumiose City in quite the opposite state of what the great capital's name seems to imply.

I was young when this Era of Darkness began. Young and naïve enough to not fully understand the dread that would befall the Kalos Region—but old enough to remember my father telling me there was nothing to worry about, that the trainers wouldn't let conflict plague the land and in just two short years at the age of ten I would be a trainer too and help my father fight.

But that was then.

Now, conflict most certainly plagues the land. Now, trainers are scared and weak and few and far, far between. Most wear the sunken-eyed, grey-haired, defeated look of my father. It is a sad, heart-wrenching expression of having witnessed the demise of something irreplaceable—the look of having lost a loved one.

I call it the look of the Ghost Trainer.

My father was once great though; he once blazed with the grandeur of Lumiose city itself, one of the most elite trainers of his time. He fought long and hard against the Flare and the rise of the Dark Era until one night he came home limping, cut and bloody and bruised—his fingers clenching a single Poké Ball. I caught a glimpse of his eyes then, as black as the bags were under them and withdrawing from the world with every passing moment, displaying to me a mixture of disorientation and agony. At that moment I decided I wanted to run from Lumiose City. It hit me like a punch to the gut: if my father couldn't stop the Flare, no one could. As he collapsed to the floor that night following the battle that reduced him to a Ghost Trainer, I couldn't help but recall the six Poké Balls he had strapped around his waist when he left the apartment that morning. His belt was empty upon his return, save for the sole Poké Ball he still gripped in his hand even as he folded into unconsciousness.

That was three years ago. Now, at the age of sixteen, I still live in Lumiose City with my father. Leaving him—especially at his weakest—was not something I could do. I tried to convince my father to go with me, to escape the city while we could, to flee from the Kalos Region altogether, but it took months for him to even speak again. For _months_ he drifted through each day in a haze without the slightest acknowledgement of me—and without releasing his grip on his last Poké Ball. Whatever happened to him that night will stay with him forever, and is something I never want to experience. I may have given up on my father back then if it weren't for Professor Ashoka.

Ashoka's always been quirky fellow. No matter the hour on the clock, whenever I see the man he is full of life and vigor, his energy knowing no bounds. He is clever and remarkably intelligent in spite of his hot temper; a gleam of mischievousness eternally dances in his eyes that are framed by crow's feet from decades of both laughter and ire. Despite his elder age, his hair is a perfect shade of black—my father, younger than the professor, went grey before the older man. I don't know the origins of their friendship . . . only that it's an ancient one.

The professor nearly lived at our apartment through the months of my father's depression. He would tell me that we needed to give my father time. Not long after that he lost his patience and resorted to yelling at the man. Then he would change his tone and plead with him, beg him for something so much as eye contact. My father, for the longest time, never responded. I began to lose faith that he would ever recover, and when Ashoka saw the disheartenment in me he snapped on my father, cursed him and yelled at him and accused him of not even loving me, his rage growing until he grabbed my father by the collar of the shirt and with his free hand ripped my father's last Poké Ball from his grasp, launching it over his shoulder without a care as he continued to shout until tears began to form in the very corners of his eyes. Only with the clatter of the Poké Ball hitting a wall and dropping to the floor did I see my father's eyes begin to focus. The hand that once held the Poké Ball clenched into a fist, his mind subconsciously searching for something that was supposed to be there, and anger flicked across my father's face with the realization that the precious object was missing. With a whir his knuckles collided with the jaw of the man before him who hadn't stopped yelling long enough to notice the instantaneous change in my father's features.

Ashoka hit the ground on his hands and knees, an immediate silence clipping over the room. I wanted to scream at my father, how could he attack the man who was trying to help him—but the professor, although pressing his hand to his face in significant pain, looked up at my father and broke into a smile, then leapt to his feet and embraced his old friend in a hug. At the insanity of it all I couldn't help but smile too as my father looked over at me, the fog clearing from his eyes. He told me he was sorry. His days of not speaking were over. Little did I know back then, his days of Pokémon training _were_.

He still wears the look of the Ghost Trainer to this day, three years later. He has never _truly_ recovered from his final battle, but he is better than he once was thanks to Professor Ashoka's mad methods.

I am still not a trainer. I gave up wanting to be when I saw what became of my father that night. How could a man who was once so great and tall—who was once my _hero_—shrink to the figure now curled up in bed across the room? He snores gently as I know his last Poké Ball is hidden safely in our two room apartment. Outside, snow falls.

The Flare force us to live this way. To live these restricted, stressful lives. The night is when they are worst—I've witnessed more beatings than a sixteen year old should, all from peering out of our boarded-up windows at frightened Lumiose survivors scuttling around past nightfall . . . then being caught by Flare brutes. They do it simply because they can, the Flare. They attack without reason, unleash the fury of their sociopathic Pokémon on the defenseless citizens. In fact, it's better to be without a Pokémon if caught by the Flare, because the punishment for having one is far, far worse than merely being spotted roaming after dark. Carrying a Pokémon is a death wish.

Which is why, when I hear a curious scratching at the door of our apartment in the dead of night, a dreaded feeling in my gut tells me it can only end badly. I want to ignore it, to roll over and squeeze my eyes shut and forget about the helpless noise, leave it in the cold. But when I close my eyes, I see the Flare wreaking havoc on innocent civilians, my father being assaulted from all angles, Professor Ashoka himself with his back against the wall—and myself, trapped behind an invisible barrier in the distance, watching everything I care about being laid to waste. And as the scratching persists, a tiny spark ignites within me, saying, _You don't have to live this way. Here I am. Fight with me._

I step out of bed and go to the door.

* * *

_Lucan. My lab. NOW.  
PS— Get acquainted.  
Her name is Fury._

That is all that is written on the scrap piece of paper that I take out of the baby Vulpix's mouth. She has a black scarf tied with care around her neck. Her fur is a soft hue of orange while the curly, tangled mane on top of her head is a blood red, matching her six tails. Her eyes are brown and warm, staring up at me with all the hope and love in the world. She pants small bursts of fire, an effort to stay warm in the cold.

I cannot help but break into a grin at the sight of her. It has been six years since I've seen a Pokémon that didn't have the crazed look of the Flare in its eyes. My father's Lucario . . .

But I have no time to reminisce. A few inches of snowfall make the night silent and muffled—and, fortunately, make it easier to pick up on the thunder of footsteps in the distance, shouts echoing, calling, "It went this way!" They are tracking the Vulpix. To the Flare, a rogue Pokémon is nothing more than a threat that must be neutralized.

I panic and feel the blood drain from my face. I scoop up the Vulpix with shaky arms, not quite noticing when she nibbles my hand. With one arm I pull the door shut behind me and slam the deadbolt into place, the other arm keeps the Vulpix pressed against my chest. She squirms and lets out a slight whine.

"_Fury! Shh!_" I hiss, knowing if we're discovered, we're doomed.

My father stirs from all the commotion. His tired muscles pull himself into a slumped, somewhat upright position, and I watch his silhouette reach for the light.

"Dad, don't!" I whisper harshly.

Light fills the room.

My father squints, rubs his eyes for what seems like an eternity as I stand in the middle of the room, heart pounding, eyes wide, arms wrapped protectively around Fury, snow in her fur and sweat in my hair. When my father finally focuses his eyes on the scene he simply reaches back over and flicks off the light.

"Lucan." He speaks after a moment. I hear a Flare's Mightyena barking menacingly in the distance. Growing closer.

"Yeah, Dad," I respond, out of breath from fear.

My father speaks slowly and deliberately. "You are going to make an amazing trainer."

He stands up and crosses the room, his eyes meeting mine in the darkness. I stand dazed as he embraces me in a hug. "I love you, son."

"What?" With one arm I hug him back, the other still wrapped around Fury. "Trainer? Dad, I-I love you too . . . but what do you mean—" My father pulls away, and my stammering words are caught in my throat as I see the round red and white object he offers to me in the shadows.

"Take this," he says solemnly.

"But it's yours."

"Do not protest."

I hesitate, then close my fist around the Poké Ball. With this motion, my father gives me a nod and moves to the door. I stand frozen in place, confused and afraid, wishing I had never opened the door to this Vulpix.

"Lucan, I need you to do one more thing for me . . ." He says grimly.

He opens the door. Snow blows inward and he steps out, drawing the attention of the Flare mongrels who have just turned a corner and sighted him, the sounds of their bloodthirsty Pokémon howling and racing forward, eager to attack.

"Dad! _Don't!_" I cry.

I watch as he takes a runner's stance, and for some twisted reason my mind can't make sense of what is taking place. Time is moving in slow-motion as my father turns to me for one final instant and shouts:

"Lucan, I need you to_ RUN!_"

Then he takes off.

I race to the door and watch in grief-stricken horror as my father sprints out into the snow toward the three Flare members and their Mightyenas, only to be overcome moments later by a torrent of claws and fangs, dragged to the ground.

I hear his cry of pain. I cringe and call for him. The Flare ravagers look up, notice the blonde-haired boy lingering worriedly in the snow with his Vulpix, and they point fingers in my direction, shout, try to command their soulless Pokémon to charge at_ me_. Then, as if mechanically, my feet begin to carry me in the opposite direction—toward Professor Ashoka's lab.

I squeeze Fury to my chest so tightly she whimpers. My feet pound through the snow.

I do not stop running the entire way.


	2. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

My eyes burn as I run. I can't tell if it is from the sting of the snowy wind or the sting of tears. I shield Fury with both arms as I race through a darkened Lumiose City. Snow crunches beneath my thumping feet. Not far behind, a pack of Mightyenas and their maniacal masters are on my scent.

I'm not faster than them.

I used to look out the window at night and see people running. Now I imagine people looking out their windows and seeing me. A crazy kid carrying a Pokémon, trying to outrun the Flare. If I were watching me, I'd say I was doomed. I wouldn't offer myself help, so why should anyone else?

I keep running.

Professor Ashoka's lab is across the city from where I live. I know the shortcuts—visiting him is a regular part of my life. I weave down alleys, over fences, through backyards; it's a different venture during the night, but it helps get the Flare off my tail. It's a long run though, and I don't run often. By the time the professor's laboratory is in sight, I've slowed down to a gasping-for-breath jog, dragging my feet through the snow which is now past ankle deep. My legs knee-down are drenched.

When I'm less than fifty yards away I'm forcing my way through blizzard like conditions, and a low growl to my left stops me in my tracks. Fury pokes her head out from the shelter of my arms and growls back, far less menacingly. I turn, and making its way through the snow is a Houndoom. It begins to flank me and I rotate clumsily so as to not put my back to it. Its growl does not let up. The insanity of the Flare burns in its eyes.

A distance behind it—watching in amusement—is a Flare member, dressed in a suit of black but with hair the color of fire. He smiles murderously, calmly tossing a signature Flare Poké Ball up and down with one hand. Their Poké Balls are black and gray with a horizontal red stripe around the center. All custom made.

Over the sound of snow whipping in the wind, I can hear the three Mightyenas and other Flare brutes catching up. I clench Fury in defeat.

_This is how I die._

Without warning the Flare member snaps his fingers. The Houndoom lunges. It rams its horned head square into my chest and I'm thrown backwards. I land hard on my back in the snow, wind knocked clear out of me, the stun of it all enough to make me see stars. I weakly sit up, coughing madly, gasping for air, only to notice that the bundle of warmth that occupied my chest moments ago is now gone—Fury was slammed from my arms in the impact.

I look wildly for her, only to catch a glimpse of a small fiery burst over my shoulder and three Mightyenas closing in on it. In front of me, the Houndoom creeps forward. I try to retreat, to get up, but I'm off balance, weak, and continue to fall back into the snow. The Houndoom lunges for me once again, this time baring its teeth.

An instant before the Pokémon's fangs dig into my shoulder I hear the crackle of electricity, feel a pit of doom in my stomach as I realize what's about to happen, then there's the searing pain of its teeth breaking through my skin. The bite alone would have been enough to incapacitate me—combining it with electricity is unbearable. I cry out desperately, waves of lightning raking through my body, making it impossible to move, impossible to breathe. The world blurs, my body burns. I'm blinded by the white hot pain of the electricity that consumes me. I cannot move, cannot feel the cold of the snow as I know I collapse into it.

Thunder fang, it used.

I guess it's what one would call a critical hit.

Then there's nothing but blackness.

* * *

"Lucan, sweetheart, come outside! Your father's _home_!"

My mother's voice rang with excitement. She had missed my father as much as I did while he was gone. But she had been gripped with fear for six months straight. I, on the other hand, was too young to understand her fear.

Outside, it was a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly and a gentle breeze sent leaves fluttering across the courtyard. My mother was already in my father's arms, reunited after half a year of him being gone. He'd been fighting with the Rogues, a group of the most elite trainers in Kalos who had gotten together to stop an unknown, but growing, threat. My father—for our well-being, he'd said before he left—refrained from giving my mother and me the details.

"_James_! I missed you so much," my mother cried into his shoulder. He embraced her tightly.

"It's alright, darling, I'm home." His voice was strong and soothing.

Ashoka was there. He strode up to my father and offered his hand, smiling. My father reluctantly let go of my mother to my grasp Ashoka's hand. He wrapped his other arm around his friend's back.

"I'm pleased to see you've returned safely," I heard the professor say to my father. "But we have much to discuss, James."

"We will talk this evening," my father said grimly. Then he turned to me as I ran towards him, and with a cheerful change of tone exclaimed, "Right now I need to see my boy!"

He crouched and opened his arms. I jumped into them.

"I'm happy you're home, dad," I said into his shirt.

"I missed you, son."

Our hug was cut short when one of the six Poké Ball's on my father's belt began to shake vigorously—then Lucario burst out. The four of us gazed at the Pokémon.

"Would you look at that, kiddo," Ashoka said with a hint of awe in his voice. "Looks like your father's not the only one who missed you."

At the age of eight, I stood eye to eye with the magnificent creature. Without hesitation I threw my arms around him—I'd missed Lucario too. He was my best friend.

My father put his hand on my shoulder.

"Just two years, son. Two short years, and you'll be fighting by my side. You'll be amazing."

* * *

I awake in pain. My body aches severely, and the light is blinding as I force myself to blink, adjusting to the world of consciousness.

"Glad to see you've come around, kiddo."

I look for the source of the familiar voice and find Professor Ashoka sitting on a stool not far from the bed I'm in, sipping tea. I sit up slowly, groaning. We're in the upstairs of his lab.

"What happened?" My voice is hoarse.

His eyes flick to mine. For once they are not filled with energy—they're dark, and meet mine with relief. Concern is etched deep into his features. His hand trembles ever so slightly as he sips from his mug.

"Here," he motions to the table by the bed, offering me a cup of tea of my own. I take a sip, and it instantly begins to relieve a bit of the pain. We sit in silence. My shirt and jacket are crusted with dried blood—my blood. My elbow up to my shoulder is wrapped tightly with white bandaging. It's too painful to lift my left arm.

"I thought they killed you, Lucan," Ashoka eventually says.

I almost wish they had. I stare into my cup, not knowing what to say.

"Where's Fury?" I ask suddenly, looking up. My heart skips a beat as I realize she's missing.

Professor Ashoka hesitates.

"_Where?_" I feel the hot sting of tears forming in my eyes. I know what he's going to say, but I can't stand to hear it.

"I couldn't get to her."

In an uncontrollable rage that shreds through me I whip the tea cup to the floor, sending shards in every direction. Ashoka is taken aback. I jump off the bed, run my hand through shaggy hair as anger, resentment, guilt, sorrow, and thousands of other emotions that can no longer be contained consume me. I storm to the window and place a hand against the glass, leaning against it as I'm suddenly feeling drained. I look out at a gray and bleak Lumiose City—the sky is growing faint with the coming of dawn.

"They killed my father."

At this Professor Ashoka rises, setting the tea cup down.

"They _killed_ him," I repeat to the window.

Ashoka joins me at the window. I turn to him, tears in my eyes.

"He's _dead_!" I shout at him.

I suddenly don't have the strength to stand so I just sink to the floor, sobbing.

"I know, Lucan. I know." The professor sits on the floor beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders. We stay that way for a long time until, finally, I fall asleep.

* * *

At the sound of the chaos Professor Ashoka raced outside. Snow fell steadily. It was cold, but he only truly froze when he saw Lucan lying motionless in the snow. His stomach flipped. The snow surrounding him was turning red, his shoulder deeply torn. A Houndoom stood over him, lips curled, and approaching the boy was a Flare agent.

Ashoka was out of sight, the snow falling too thickly for him to be noticed.

The agent looked down at Lucan as if he were admiring his work, but his attention was pulled from the boy by the commotion of the Mightyenas ambushing Fury. Her attacks were growing weaker and weaker, each bout of fire smaller than the last. She wouldn't last much longer.

"Stop! _Stop_! Control your beasts and _capture_ the Vulpix, I want it _alive_, you fools!" barked the Flare agent by Lucan. He appeared the man in charge.

At his command, one of the other three imbeciles tossed a black and gray Poké Ball toward Fury, forcing her within.

The head Flare member pressed a finger to his ear. "The fire-type has been acquired. What do you want us to do with the boy? . . . . Yes, ma'am."

The three and their Mightyenas approached the head Flare agent for their orders.

"Gorrison, you and your men dispose of the kid. Toss him with his father, I don't care. If he's not already dead he'll bleed out soon enough. Just don't leave him in the street. We're not savages."

Toss him with his father.

_Toss him with his father_.

Ashoka couldn't keep the words from echoing through his head, unable to process them.

The one who must've been Gorrison responded, "Yes, sir," and threw Lucan over his shoulder. Blood still streamed from his bite wound.

He wasn't one to panic, but the scene unfolding before the professor was too much to swallow. He couldn't sit idly by for a moment longer. Timidly, he began to approach the four Flare members, hands raised slightly above his head to show he was not attempting to threaten them.

Regrettably it was a Mightyena that spotted him first. The Pokémon had him pinned to the ground in an instant, its paws firm on his chest; teeth were bared and a low growl emanated from within the beast. Snow fell onto Ashoka's face.

"Well, well. Ashoka, right? You must forgive my men, they are _brainless_, I swear."

The head Flare member physically shoved the Mightyena off of him and offered the professor his hand. He reluctantly grasped it and the agent pulled Ashoka to his feet.

"We haven't met but I've heard you're a brilliant man, Ashoka. You do great work for the Flare. The name's Drayvin, I'm the newest Head Admin here in Lumiose. Lovely city. I'm sorry if we disturbed your sleep, we were just finishing up in fact."

The man was polite as ever—and completely insane. Ashoka rolled with it.

"Actually, Drayvin, that's not what brought me out here tonight."

"Oh? Was there something I could do for you?" He asked courteously.

"Well, you see, the boy over there," Professor Ashoka pointed to Lucan slumped over the brute's shoulder, "has been an _incredible_ help to me in my research. I would not be nearly as successful in my experiments without him. I fear progress may slow drastically without his assistance . . . if you could find it within yourself to allow him to remain with me at my laboratory, I will personally see to it that he never disrupts the on-goings of the Flare again. You have my word."

Drayvin's dark eyes narrowed. For a moment he said nothing, only scrutinized the professor. Then he said slowly, "I've heard good things about you Ashoka, so I'm going to give this nuisance to you. But if you double-cross me," his voice lowered to a threatening growl, "I'll have more than your _word_. Count on it."

Gorrison dumped Lucan into Professor Ashoka's arms. The Flare turned and left.

The professor looked down at the young face of the boy in his arms.

_Toss him with his father._

James was dead.

* * *

"So I'm your prisoner?" I ask the next day after Ashoka recounts the tale. He is rushing around his lab, madly stuffing things into a backpack. Snow fell all through the night and continues to do so. Two feet of it are outside. I sit on the windowsill.

"No. I didn't speak a word of the truth to those bastards," says Ashoka. I look at him curiously. "We're going to get Fury back and get the hell out of Lumiose."

For the first time in what feels like a long time, hope spurs within me.

"What?" is the only response I can manage.

"You haven't wondered why I sent you that note in the first place?" The professor questions me without looking up. "I know you've been craving to leave this god-forbidden city for a long time and so have I. The injustice—the work they think they can force upon me and their penalties for not getting it done by their unfeasible deadlines—they, these _monsters_, they set me up for failure just so they—and all these innocent people—the Pokémon—the needless _deaths_—they're _murderers—_I, I planned on taking your father with us—" Ashoka sighs and looks at me worriedly, probably wondering if I'll break down again at the mention of my father.

I don't say a word so he continues rambling. "I know how we can bring them down. For _good_. We're not just going to escape, we're going to thrive—we're going to make this region what it once was, restore it to its former glory. I've figured it out. Just needed the right Pokémon for so long, and more so the right _trainer_. Getting Fury back is the first part, and it will be tough, especially since they trapped her in one of their own malicious Poké Balls. Never mind actually getting there—we'll have to go after dark. I just wish we had an _actual_ Poké Ball. She needs to recover—haven't been Poké Centers in years—how else would we even snag her from them—"

I'd been tossing my father's Poké Ball up and down the entire time Ashoka spoke, waiting for him to notice. It had been in my pocket the entire time. He eventually tunes into the noise of the plastic repeatedly landing in the palm of my hand and whips around to face me.

"My father knew what he was doing," I say with a sad smile.

"James you mad genius . . ." The professor breaks into a grin. His eyes gleam with wickedness and adventure. "You ready to change the world, kiddo?"


	3. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

"How did you get these?"

The black shirt and crimson silk vest fit me snugly. I straighten the red tie and pull the obsidian suit jacket on last, wincing in pain as the sleeve pulls at my bandaged arm hidden beneath the fine fabrics of the Flare's official attire.

"That's none of your concern." Ashoka combs back his dark hair in a professional manner. Looking the part is critical.

Both of our jackets are embroidered with a fiery letter "F" on the left breast pocket, designed so that the letter itself appears as a flame. The Flare insignia. My inner jacket pocket contains the identification card of the man whose uniform this originally belonged to—_Moore, Chesper_—a blonde haired fellow who at first glance could've been mistaken for me. He wears dark red aviators in his identification picture which cover most of his face. He's clean shaven, too. Just . . . his hair is cut uniquely into a faux hawk. My hair, in contrast, hangs down past my ears.

"This isn't going to work . . ." I kneel and lace up my combat boots. The Flare dress as if they can't decide whether they want to be hitmen or soldiers. I suppose—in a way—they're both.

"Have faith, boy!" Ashoka chimes. "What do you think?"

The professor is outfitted entirely in black save for a garnet tie. His attire is nearly identical to mine; the only article that differs between our suits is the flashy red vest I wear that Chesper must've fancied.

Ashoka puts on dark rectangular glasses and hands me the identification card that was within his jacket. The name reads _Gammond, Tony_. I hold the card up to him; as long as he keeps the glasses on, it's easy to mistake the professor for the slick-haired man in the picture.

"You really do look different without your wild, scientist hair," I remark.

He takes the card back and slips it inside his jacket. "At least when all is said and done," Ashoka says impishly, offering me a pair of scissors, "I can put my hair back to normal."

"You're kidding."

"They will check for proof of identity," he insists. "If you appear as anyone other than Chesper Moore, they will detain, interrogate, torture, and _execute_ you, Lucan. A haircut is worth it. Besides, you have no idea how difficult it was to track down a blonde Flare member—be grateful you don't have to dye it red! The look most certainly would not suit you."

I sigh and take the scissors. He's right.

"So did you kill them, professor?" I ask as I begin to cut my hair. "Moore and Gammond? Is that how you got all this stuff?"

"I already told you, boy," he replies seriously. "That's none of your concern."

"Fine." I snip away at my hair. I'm not sure I want to know the answer anyway. "Then on a different note," I say, "answer me this. How did you get Fury?"

"I caught her, of course."

"With what Poké Ball? I thought you had none."

The professor looks at me sheepishly. "Well, you're right . . . I haven't had possession of a Poké Ball in years," he says slowly. "So, I—err—tackled her."

I couldn't contain myself. "What? Let me get this straight," I chuckled, "you went out into the wild, alone, no Pokémon or Poké Balls, until you came across a Vulpix, and you _tackled_ it?"

He grins. "You got it. She left nasty burns too." He lifts his chin to show me the scarred, coarse skin beneath his right jaw line where Fury must've scorched him. Then he rolls up his left sleeve to reveal an entire forearm of matching, seared scars.

"I always knew you were crazy, professor."

"Hah. You think that's crazy? You should've seen me as a kid. When I first started training . . ." he pauses, suddenly hesitant, and lets the thought trail off. "I must admit—Fury isn't the first Pokémon I've tried to hand-catch. But those are tales for other days."

I continue cutting.

I'm amazed by how good my hair actually looks when I finish clipping the sides off. I trim the top and spike it slightly, as Chesper has done in his picture. It is challenging to do so with one hand—the damage to the muscles in my left shoulder is severe, if not permanent. I can move my arm from the elbow down without issue, but trying to fully lift my arm above my head is useless.

"Wow," Ashoka comments. "You look _older_."

I hand him Chesper's identification card, pull the red aviators from my jacket pocket and put them on. The tint immediately irks me.

"Is it a match? Am I good?"

"Uh-oh . . ." the professor says, studying the card.

"What?" I thought I nailed it.

". . . Is that a piercing?"

"_What_!" I whip off the aviators.

"There . . . Moore's left ear," he points at the picture.

"_Give me that_!" I take the card from him. "You can't be serious!"

I examine Chesper's photo anxiously.

"_HA_!" Ashoka laughs after a moment and points a finger at me. "You should see the look on your face!"

I let out a sigh of relief, realizing he's joking. I allow myself to laugh too. It's refreshing.

And as we stand there together living in the distraction of the moment, I am not aware of the third black suit that is folded neatly in a drawer in the professor's lab. Tucked away in the jacket pocket of that hidden suit is one more Flare identification card, and the picture on that card is a match for my father.

He should've been laughing there with us.

* * *

I grow nervous as it gets closer to night. I know we'll be leaving soon. The snow has finally stopped after hours of it fluttering from the sky—nearly three feet of it blanket Lumiose City. I've been sitting by the window in the professor's lab for a while now, observing as the lower ranks of Flare goons saunter through the streets with their fire-type Pokémon, using the creatures merely as tools to melt the cumbersome snow. They treat the Pokémon like slaves, giving them a kick or shove when they slow down or stagger in the snow. It makes me sick. The fire-type do not belong in freezing temperatures like this, and they do not deserve to be treated with such insignificance.

A tiny part of me is waiting to see Fury among them. I know I'll snap if I do.

"She won't be out there," Ashoka says, nearly reading my thoughts. "She's not brainwashed enough yet."

"Brainwashed?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Pokémon are smart, Lucan. Extremely so. A Pokémon such as Fury, who has already felt the love and care of a trainer, will not be so easily turned by the Flare. Given time, I suppose they will be able to—" he pauses, frowning, "_punish_ her into obedience—but with any luck that will not be for some time. You see, the Flare prefer to capture their Pokémon when the creatures are young and before they have been affected by anyone else, it makes it far easier to turn the beings to their will, to use them as servants and slaves and _weapons_.

"This is typically why," he continues, "with trainers who have much more experienced Pokémon, the Flare outright slay them. The Pokémon are too loyal to their trainers to be useful if caught—and the trainers are too much of a threat to let live." The professor looks to me. "You and Fury nearly received that fate."

I can't meet his eyes. "But I'm not a trainer," I say slowly. "I'm not a _threat_. I'm—I'm—"

"Lucan," he says deftly, "_look_ at yourself. You think you are not a threat? Then explain to me why the Flare would put so much effort into hunting and nearly executing you. You are the son of one of the greatest trainers of this century, and they _know _that. The know your potential. _I_ know your potential. You see this?" He takes the Poké Ball from my hand. "This makes you a trainer, boy, and Fury is _your_ Pokémon. You think you are not a threat? You are prepared to impersonate these men who have stolen everything from you, and even more so, take back what's yours. If I were them," his eyes are ablaze, "I'd feel threatened, dammit."

I stand up, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The sun hangs low over Lumiose and tall shadows throw themselves over the streets. It's time.

"Well then, professor . . ." I say, "Let's go get my Pokémon."

He offers my Poké Ball back to me. I grasp it. "That's the spirit, kiddo."

We head downstairs. Ashoka hides his backpack under a table in his lab; he will presumably be back for it later. I tuck my Poké Ball safely in my coat pocket. We both outfit ourselves with one final piece of Flare attire—two-tone red and black leather jackets, intended for bitter weather. The Flare insignia is stitched into the right shoulder of each coat. On the front of mine is a small Velcro patch with the name _Moore_ sewn into it; the professor's jacket reads _Gammond_.

"Lucan, one final thing before we depart." Ashoka reaches into his bag and pulls out a digital watch. The time glows neon red: _1753_. "Wear this at all times. In the event that we get separated, meet at the city's northern exit at twenty-four hundred. No matter _what_. Understood?"

"What happens if we get separated," I begin, "and you're not there at twenty-four hundred, professor?"

"Nonsense," he scoffs. "All you need to worry about is _you_ being there. Understood?" he repeats.

"Understood, Gammond."

He grins at his new name. "Now, unless I say otherwise, you follow my lead and keep your wits about you, Lucan. This is enemy territory."

And we are about to leave—the professor has his hand on the handle—when someone outside begins pounding on the door.


	4. Chapter IV

**Chapter IV**

It's my dad. It has to be. He lived and got away from the Flare and will escape Lumiose City with us.

I make a move to whip the door open but the professor shoves his palm to my chest, stiff-arming me.

"What did I _just_ say, boy?" he half whispers half snarls. "Keep your wits about you!" He glares at me from behind his dark glasses, a powerful gaze coming from someone who looks like he belongs with the Flare. I nod. "Follow my lead."

He opens the door.

Cold air rushes inward, and we're face to face with two Flare goons. They wear leather jackets that match ours, though theirs are shiny and wet from hours of being out in the snow. The name patches on each are too frosted over to read. One of them is a burly man with buzzed, reddish-brown hair. The other is a black haired woman, and they both wear dark sunglasses similar to the professor's. The light of the setting sun reflects blindingly off the snow behind them and I'm actually glad to be wearing the aviators.

I shouldn't have expected it to be my father. I feel crushed by disappointment. But I maintain my composure.

"Gammond. Moore." The woman nods at us in greeting, reading our name patches. "Were you two not at tonight's conference? This sector's been spoken for." She was neither hostile nor friendly toward us.

"Missed it. We were scheduled for patrol tonight. Drayvin requested we make a stop here on our route, give the scientist a friendly reminder of the work he owes us at the end of the week." The professor adopts an entirely new voice to speak to this woman—one full of arrogance and boredom. It amazes me, given that he's always so chipper and usually tripping over his words.

"That fool," the woman sighs. "Vic gave us the same request. Seems like Drayvin and she haven't been communicating in the least since he was transferred in. We've been receiving overlapping orders from each of them all week."

"Us too," says the professor. "Not that there's ever been much order to Vic's ways . . . but now it seems even less so with this new guy running around, imposing commands."

"Ain't that the truth," the reddish-haired man snickers in agreement. "I hear this new admin killed a kid the other night though. At least he's got the spine for the job."

"Yeah, I heard about that too," I chip in, marveling at the irony. I hold my hands behind my back in nervousness.

"Those two better find their groove soon, or I'm gonna lose it," says the woman. "But if all's taken care of here, we'll be moving on. Which direction was your route taking you?"

"We were about to finish up with the outer circle then report back to the Tower," says Ashoka.

"My partner and I were on our way to the eastern gates for our shift swap," the woman says. I realize our routes correspond. "Seems like we'll be making the trip as a group."

I step out into the cold. Ashoka follows, pulling the door to his lab shut behind him. I don't want to walk with them. I have a thousand questions for the professor, my main one being—_why are you so good at this?_ But I guess they'll have to wait.

"The name's Sheera, by the way," the woman says. "This muscle here is Minno." She pats the hulking man on the shoulder. His name does not suit him.

"Tony," says the professor.

"Chesper," I say, nodding to the both of them.

The four of us begin walking. Most of the snow that had previously buried the streets has been melted down by the Flare's Pokémon, making the trip easier, but it is still below freezing out. The wind bites at my face and I clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. I'm thankful it's no longer snowing.

"So did we miss anything of importance at the conference today?" Ashoka asks, not truly sounding interested. I know it's an act. Any information of the Flare's is vital.

"Pssh," Minno scoffs. "Nothing is ever new at those stupid meetings. Same shit, different day. Waste of time."

"Potential sighting of a couple trainers up to the north," Sheera says. "Nothing of concern though. Vic already sent cutthroats. Says the pair will be dead by tomorrow. Other than that just the usual yammer—" She puts on a fake, imitating voice, "—anyone out past curfew? Kill 'em. Anyone trying to leave the city? Kill 'em. Anyone in your way? Kill 'em."

"Trainers, eh?" The professor's interest is piqued. "How do they know?"

"RWPs 'round the belt," Sheera answers. "Giveaway."

"Wonder where they came from," he ponders.

_RWP. _It's not a term I've heard used often, but one I know from my father. It's simply a shortened way of saying, "Red and white Poké Ball." Ever since the Flare rose to power, it's been a term used to differentiate between the main two Poké Balls in the region: my kind, and their kind. But if those Poké Balls really were spotted on others . . . there are still trainers in Kalos. The news is uplifting . . . but the fact that they've been noticed and are already scheduled to be assassinated . . . They're to the north. It must be why the professor instructed me to go to the northern entrance if we get separated. He knows. His plan has to include meeting with them.

It's getting dark, right around the time when my father and I would be locking up for the night. I hear other citizens doing so—deadbolts being forced into place behind doors, blinds flurrying closed. I'm ashamed to wear the Flare insignia. I know people are looking out at me in disgust. I was one of those people only nights ago.

We keep walking. My stress builds with every step.

My worst fear at the moment is that we'll run into an innocent citizen and be forced to play along with Sheera and Minno—to have to attack and possibly _kill_ someone. I wouldn't be able to do it. I'd blow our cover.

"How's your route been tonight?" Sheera asks us.

"Boring," says Ashoka.

Minno laughs.

"You two been out long?" she asks.

"Since noon," the professor says.

"Stuck with the eight-hour, eh?" Minno remarks.

"Unfortunately," I say. I speak only when it's an easy comment to make. I'm afraid I'll say something absolutely ridiculous that will give us away otherwise. I'd prefer to just stay silent but that may come off as unusual too.

I'm met with immense relief when we finally reach the southern gates. We don't have to travel with these two any longer. The professor and I part ways with the Flare duo without much being said between us. Not like I want to speak to them more than I have to anyway.

We head toward Lumiose Center. I glance around and over my shoulder before beginning my chain of questions that I know is very un-Flare-like. When deemed safe, I say quietly to the professor, "So who's Vic?"

He speaks as quietly as me. "She's the current Flare chieftain in Lumiose. Her reign falls within the city. Sending those 'cutthroats' too far past the gates is a risk on her part . . ." he says mostly to himself. I know he's thinking of the mysterious trainers. "Could vex the nearest chief if jurisdictions overlap . . ." he pauses for a moment, brow furrowed, then continues speaking in a low voice. "Drayvin is her number two administrator, brand new, you know, I'm sure you remember him."

"Yeah. Sounds like they've been clashing."

"It does, indeed," Ashoka muses. "Makes it easier for us to have excuses for being somewhere we shouldn't be. Just say Drayvin sent us, if need be."

"Good point," I say.

We approach a pair of Flare agents and our conversation halts. We don't break our stride, however, and pass them without a word. We blend in. It's strange, the freedom of being out at night without a lump of panic in my throat. The night air is crisp and rejuvenating. I'm tempted to take off my sunglasses, but I know maintaining the identity of Chesper Moore is essential. The tint's not that bad, and I've seen countless Flare thugs wearing their shades after dark.

"I know you said before you had a plan," I begin when out of earshot of anyone else, "would you mind filling me in, professor?"

"Only when we're out of the city, when we're truly safe," he says. "I promise to give you all the details. Until then, it's simply get Fury and get out. We mustn't delay." He looks at his watch. I do the same out of curiosity. The time reads _1922_. It certainly doesn't feel like an hour and a half have passed since I last looked at the time.

"At the Tower," I say, "do you know where to find her?"

"No. And I only suspect Fury is there because when I witnessed the Flare capture her, I overheard Drayvin reporting to someone higher-up that he had finished doing so. The only person higher up than Drayvin is Vic. Vic wouldn't be anywhere other than the Tower. If my logic follows through then Fury is with Vic, presumably—err—training, preparing for field work . . ."

The thought of any harm being done to Fury is enraging.

"Professor I hope you're right about her being here," I say, growing distressed. "I don't want to spend all night searching Lumiose because every second that I'm not with Fury is one more second that they can do whatever they want to her, and I can't live with that."

I can't see his eyes from behind his glasses, but his voice is a mixture of pride and sorrow when he says to me, "You sound just like your father."

* * *

"James! _James_! You _must_ calm down!" Ashoka insisted. "Going after them in a blind fury will solve nothing."

He wouldn't listen.

"Calm down? You expect me to _calm down_? Do you not understand what they've done?" he backlashed. "They are thieves and _murderers_! Lucario is gone and Gyarados and Flareon are dead! Not just fainted—_dead_. Look at _me_ for goodness' sake!" James furiously extended his arms and faced the professor. His arms were cut and bleeding, his face raked with claw marks. His clothes were torn and his bluish-gray hair was in disarray. "If I had lingered a moment longer I'd be dead too."

"Which is why you're in no shape to go after them," Ashoka countered. "You need to recover."

"I'll start recovering when I have Lucario back." James ran a shaky hand through his hair in an attempt to neaten the mess.

"You're not thinking clearly, James. You can't do this alone."

"I've still got half my team left," he said, placing a hand on the three remaining Poké Balls at his side.

"But with your full team you were nearly killed! Now you're wounded and down to _half_. You truly think this is the best idea?" Ashoka was growing angry with the man.

"You don't _get_ it—!"

"—I don't get it?" the professor cut in, taken aback. "What do I not _get_, James? Loss, death? Having the things I care most about in this world _stolen_ from me? Have you forgotten the trainer I once was before I, too, was robbed by these monsters?"

"No, no," James sounded regretful. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just . . . every moment that I stay here and do nothing is a moment more that they can do god-knows-what to Lucario. To any Pokémon. They are not trainers, they're torturers. And sitting idly by while the world continues down this path is just not something I can live with. The Flare are only growing stronger, and waiting is not going to stop them. There's no time to _heal_. I'm going back out there right _now_ and defeating those bastards so that my son can have a future, so that my wife can live without fear, so that my Pokémon did not die in vain."

"James you have a noble cause but you're spewing insanity." Ashoka tried to persuade him. "I'm on your side, but listen to yourself. You intend to singlehandedly defeat an entire army? The Flare even overpowered the Rogues. Remember why Jaseph Darcy disbanded the alliance? Because it was too _dangerous_. They will _kill_ you, James. Think of your family. You want to leave them like this?"

James hesitated. He looked down at the vacant Poké Ball in his palm that was once a home to Lucario. After a moment he snapped the Poké Ball shut, tucked it inside his jacket, and met the professor's eyes. "When I hugged my son goodbye this morning," he said slowly, "I had a team of six Pokémon with me. I am not going back as the man who gave up halfway through the fight—I will finish this battle. Now are you going to help me or am I going alone?"

* * *

From what my father used to tell me, the Tower was once known as Prism Tower. It was beautiful—supposedly. Before the uprising of the Flare, it was an architectural masterpiece, a spiraling structure of steel that reached toward the sky. At night it would illuminate. Lumiose City was named for it.

I've only ever known the Tower as the ugly skyscraper in Lumiose Center where the Flare headquarters is situated. A massive banner drapes eternally over the front of the building, displaying the Flare insignia to the city . . . reminding the people of who's in charge. As a show of their power, the Flare destroyed the actual Prism Tower when they took over, burnt it to the ground. They built this ugly monstrosity in its place.

The closer we get to it the more nervous I grow. The professor must sense it.

"Keep your cool, Lucan," he says quietly to me. "Remember, be at the northern gates by twenty-four hundred."

"You say that as if you're sure we _will_ get separated," I say anxiously.

"Well, Gammond has been missing a lot longer than Moore has. I fear they may be growing suspicious. I've been using Gammond's name for over a month now . . ."

"To do _what_?" I'm genuinely surprised by this news. "And where is the _actual_ Tony Gammond?"

"That's none of your concern," he says quickly. "At any rate Moore's only been de—err—missing a few days. No one will have taken notice, so you're in the clear. Gammond's identification card may be flagged since he's been missing in action for such a duration of time. I'll deal with whatever comes my way if that is the case. You'll need to find Fury."

Panic rises within me as he speaks. "And how am I supposed to do that? I thought we were going to be _together_," I say harshly.

"I've never actually been in the Tower so it's hard to say what we're stepping in to. All I know is that the chief's center of operations is on the top floor," he tells me. "Perhaps from there you can get an idea as to where Fury is, or where captured Pokémon are taken in general. Try to avoid running into her though. And don't look so damn worried, you'll raise alarm. I doubt anyone's noticed Gammond's absence anyway," the professor ends his ramble on a word of optimism, but sounds doubtful.

We're too close to the Tower to continue the conversation. I do my best to swallow my anxiety.

As we approach the building I notice a Flare guard leaning next to the entrance, lazily smoking a cigarette. A Mightyena rests at his feet in boredom. It's their Pokémon of choice. We pass the guard without so much as a word or glance, push through glass doors, and step into the Tower. I have a dreadful feeling that I'll never see the outside world again as the doors swing shut behind us.

I didn't realize how cold I was until we're inside the muggy building. The interior is shabby and poorly lit. It reeks of cigarette smoke—I do my best not to cough. The entryway is a narrow hallway and an electronically controlled gate runs across it, preventing us from moving any further into the building without first speaking to the bearded man at our right. He sits lethargically with his combat-booted feet propped up on his desk, reading a newspaper.

"Identification cards," he says without looking at us. He has a thick accent. The professor and I each reach inside of our jackets and pull out the cards, placing them on the table in front of the man who doesn't do so much as offer his hand to take them.

After a few moments of him simply reading the news, he puts the paper down and picks up the professor's card. "Sorry. Had to finish my article." He sounds insincere. The man lifts the card and compares it to the professor. My heart races. I watch the professor from behind my aviators, his face shows no emotion.

After an approving grunt the grizzly man swipes the card through the computer. He gives the card back to the professor and lazily waves him toward the gate. "Wait for the green light then push through, you know how it works."

But there is no green light. The computer suddenly gives a strident _buzz_ and the man looks startled, as if he's never come across this before. He swings his feet to the floor and leans in toward the computer screen to read over what it's telling him.

"Gammond . . . been skipping shifts, eh?" he snickers. "Drayvin's put out an order for ya. Fella has no tolerance for insubordinate agents."

The professor slowly removes his glasses.

At that, two Flare goons come out of a doorway directly to our left that I hadn't noticed when we came in. It blends in with the wall, and I can see that beyond the door is a stairwell. The man at the desk points a careless finger at the professor and the two thugs each grab an arm of his. They drag him through the doorway, the professor's eyes meet mine in a final look of perseverance, and then he's gone. It happens instantaneously.

The bearded man throws his feet back up on the desk, pulls a cigarette out from somewhere, and lights it. He takes a long drag. "Nice knowing ya, comrade," the man mutters to himself. He exhales a circle of cigarette smoke.

I stand in shock, not quite able to wrap my brain around what just happened. I remember quickly though that I am still Chesper Moore. I have to maintain self-control.

"Where are they taking him?" I ask, trying hard not to sound worried—merely curious.

"Down to the basement," the man answers, probably because it's actually a topic of interest to him. "Drayvin's gonna beat the living shit outta the guy. He's got nothing better to do than slaughter anyone that annoys him. Man's fucking crazy." He swipes my card through the computer and hands it back to me.

I take the card. I can't muster a response so I simply move to the gate. A caged light at the top of it turns green, and I push past it. In a daze, I force my feet to take me to the elevator I see at the end of the hall. Top floor, I remind myself, top floor.

I know Professor Ashoka said he'd deal with whatever came his way, but it's hard to see him making it out of this one on his own. My priorities suddenly seem very clear to me—finding Fury comes first. Then, just as he did for me, I have to rescue the professor from Drayvin.


	5. Chapter V

**Chapter V**

Although he will never let Lucan find out, Ashoka is terrified.

The two Flare brutes keep firm grasps on the professor's arms. He is dragged and shoved down two flights of stairs, stumbling the entire way, until there are no more stairs to descend. The Flare agents force the professor through a thick metal door and out of the stairwell, into a narrow corridor that extends a distance to the left. Buzzing lights hang in rusted cages from the ceiling. Rooms line the hall and each doorway has a large red letter painted above it. The nearest room reads _A_, then _B_, and so on. Ashoka can make out a room _F_ at the end of the passage, and then past that the hall turns at a right angle.

The bottom level of the building has evident flooding damage—the bases of walls are deteriorating, doorframes sag, wood rots. Water drips through the ceiling in areas. Puddles gather where the floor dips unevenly. A musty tang fills the air.

The agents force Ashoka into room _A_. It is a barren concrete room containing only a wooden table and two chairs.

One of the men pulls a radio off of his belt and with his thumb holds down a button on the side. "Drayvin, we've detained your agent that went MIA. Location two B-A. Over."

There's a moment of static sounding from the device, then the crackling, chipper voice of Drayvin. "Oh, you found Tony Gammond? Marvelous! Something to do—been dealing with these maddening Pokémon all evening. Copy that. Hold Mister Gammond until I am present."

"Copy." He releases the button and then turns to Ashoka. "Sit down," he commands.

Ashoka hesitates. Drayvin threatened the professor's life the night he almost killed Lucan. What will the maniac do now that Ashoka has impersonated a Flare agent and outright crossed Drayvin? He imagines the admin will not take kindly to the matter.

"Listen . . ." starts the professor, worriedly racking his brain for a way out of the situation.

But the Flare agent will have none of it. Before Ashoka can get out a second word the thug grabs him by the collar of his shirt and forcefully pushes him into one of the chairs at the table. The chair nearly tips over from the force of Ashoka being thrust into it. Its legs scrape against the floor; the sound of wood on concrete is harsh. As Ashoka lands clumsily in it the second brute makes a quick move to lock handcuffs around the professor's wrists, winding the chain through the spokes on the back of the chair. Ashoka hadn't realized the agents carry cuffs.

"Okay, okay. Don't listen," breathes the professor, tugging his hands against the handcuffs only to find the metal cutting into his wrists is incredibly painful. ". . . Is this really necessary?"

"Shut up," says one of them, and then they both exit the room behind him to stand guard outside the metal door that is shut with a _clang_. The professor is alone.

There's a leak in the room. Water falls in slow droplets from a corner of the ceiling.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Dread grows within the professor. He cannot sit still and relentlessly pulls against the cuffs. He knows it's useless—the metal only shreds the skin around his wrists even more—but being restrained and _stuck_ here when he knows Lucan is somewhere in the Tower, alone, surrounded by Flare agents, trying to find Fury, and not being able to be by his side _helping_ him . . . it's maddening. He can only hope the boy sticks to the plan and makes it to the northern gates by midnight, whether the professor is there or not . . . and judging by the look of things, Ashoka most certainly will not be. But as long as Lucan perseveres tonight, he will be safe in the hands of the Rogues. That is all the professor truly cares about—that boy making it.

If anything, perhaps while Lucan is searching for Fury, the professor will serve as a distraction to Drayvin, whom he now hears out in the hall.

"You two, take your leave," he orders the men. "I do not have my radio on me so make sure no one attempts to contact me. I hate interruptions."

"Yes, sir."

Ashoka hears the agents leave. His stomach churns.

The professor is seated facing the opposite direction of the door, so he does not at first see Drayvin when he enters. He only hears the door creak open, then slam shut a moment later, being locked with a _click_. Ashoka is tense with anxiety. He clenches his fists and stares down at the wooden table in front of him, stained with blood and dug up by knives or teeth or claws. Water continues to drip in the corner of the room.

"Mister Gammond," begins Drayvin, stepping slowly and purposefully into Ashoka's line of view. His orange slacks are the same shade as his styled, fiery hair. He wears a collared white button-down shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to his elbows, and has grown a neat, thin beard since the last time the professor saw him. Ashoka notices a short dagger strapped to the back of his belt . . . but no Poké Balls.

Drayvin does not look up from the clipboard he holds which must have Gammond's file attached to it. He flips a page, ambling around to the opposite side of the table. His dark wing-tip shoes clip against the concrete floor with each step. "Would you mind telling me where you have been for the past forty-six days?"

Only when the professor remains silent does Drayvin look up. His bronze eyes meet Ashoka's and in an instant his features change from that of authority to astonishment.

"Good to see you again, Drayvin," Ashoka says coldly.

Drayvin is at a loss for words. He drops the clipboard onto the table. "Ashoka? What in the world . . . ?"

His eyes trail from the professor's face down to the official Flare insignia stitched into Ashoka's leather jacket. He raises an eyebrow in confusion, then suddenly strides to Ashoka's side of the table. He reaches into the professor's right coat pocket, knowing exactly where every Flare agent's identification card is held. Ashoka can do nothing but let him as he is still handcuffed to the chair.

Drayvin pulls out the card and looks over it in scrutiny. His eyes flick between the professor's face and the piece of plastic, his expression growing in anger, until he ultimately sends the card whirling across the room with the flick of his wrist.

He turns his back to the professor and slowly begins to pace the room, deep in thought, his hands folded behind his back. He eventually pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, removes one, and strikes a match to light it. The stench fills the room—Ashoka despises it. Drayvin takes a long puff then exhales, letting his shoulders sag as the smoke rises.

"You know, I'm not even a smoker," he says, contrary to his actions. He continues to pace. "Such a nasty habit. Every agent here is a heavy smoker, however. When I was transferred in I simply couldn't resist."

Ashoka says nothing. A silence falls over the room in which Drayvin simply paces and smokes, seeming contemplative. Water still drips from the ceiling. The professor's wrists are raw from the handcuffs.

Without looking up, Drayvin finally says, "It truly was ingenious. Impersonate an agent. Quite senseless of you to show your face here at the Tower, but ingenious nonetheless. I must admit you caught even me off guard. You're a smart man, Ashoka . . . too smart for your own good."

Drayvin steps toward Ashoka and without warning puts out the cigarette on the professor's neck. He winces and clenches his teeth, inhaling with a sharp hiss at the acute pain of the action.

"You could have been a boon to the Flare," Drayvin says remorsefully, flicking away the butt of the cigarette with his thumb and middle finger. "But you missed your chance. Unfortunately for you, I have no tolerance for insubordination, and I take betrayal very personally. It's a shame I'll have to kill you for what you did. So much intelligence put to waste . . ."

Drayvin sighs, then pulls the dagger from his belt and plunges the blade into the wooden table. It sticks with a _thud_. Ashoka eyes the knife, trying to swallow his panic. He thought for sure the blade was about to be plunged into _him_.

"You're awfully quiet, professor," Drayvin says, noticing Ashoka's glance at the dagger. "Have you nothing to say on the matter at hand?"

"No," the professor says steadily, meeting the admin's stare. Drayvin's gold eyes are ablaze. "I knew the risk of my actions. I am not going to beg for my life."

At this Drayvin grins wildly. "Splendid. I respect a man who can die with dignity. Most of the ones I kill plead for mercy, some of them plead for death, and it is pitiful. Simply embarrassing. You only truly know a man in the moments before he dies. Such a rush to see the final instant of one's life." Ashoka marvels at how absolutely maniacal Drayvin is. "Tell me, professor. Have you ever killed a man?"

The sudden question causes Ashoka to hesitate. He looks away, ashamed.

Drayvin picks up on the motion. "_Really_?" he gapes. "I wouldn't have expected that. You continue to impress, Ashoka. I'm beginning to believe you and I are more alike than either of us realize."

"I am _nothing_ like you!" Ashoka snaps, taken aback. "You're a monster!"

"A monster?" Drayvin muses. "Because I seek to eliminate those who battle Pokémon for their own entertainment? These so called _trainers_?"

The professor is absolutely shocked. Outraged. "You use Pokémon to power your army! Use them as weapons! You believe you are fighting for the _good_ of Pokémon? You people _kill_ Pokémon!"

Drayvin's eyes narrow. "Any agent that harms a Pokémon receives double the pain from _me_. Pokémon are not mistreated here. Not forced to fight each other. We use them because they are powerful enough to rid the world of trainers who wish to see them battle time after time—"

"This is so _twisted_!" Ashoka cuts him off, furious. "I can't believe you think you're one of the _good guys_! You are absolutely insane, Drayvin, now let me out of these handcuffs so we can fight like men and not bicker like children—"

Drayvin hits him. He lands a full forced punch to the jaw that snaps the professor's head to the side and makes him see stars. Ashoka spits blood on the floor and lets his head droop.

"That was for interrupting me," Drayvin says coldly, grabbing the professor's chin with his hand and forcing him to make eye contact. "Never interrupt me."

It takes a moment for the professor's vision to gain focus on the mad, burning eyes of the man before him. Drayvin takes a slight step back, and the professor's body tenses when he sees Drayvin's fist rushing toward his face once again.

The admin's knuckles crash into Ashoka's jaw in the same spot, the pain so severe that the professor's ears ring and he cannot see straight.

"_And that was for telling me what to do_," Drayvin says, sounding remarkably distant over the ringing of Ashoka's ears. "_No one tells me what to do_." It sounds as if Ashoka is listening to him from behind a barrier of glass.

Ashoka blinks hard, coming around, and realizes the second blow was enough to tip him and the chair over entirely. He lies sideways on the ground, his arms awkwardly bent behind him due to still being cuffed to the chair. His right arm is pinned painfully to the concrete at the elbow by the back of the chair, not bent in the direction it normally should be.

Drayvin sees the position of the professor's arm—sees an opportunity—and steps down on the back of the chair, slowly adding more and more pressure. Ashoka writhes in pain, the strain on his backwards bent elbow feeling enough to snap it. Gritting his teeth he desperately tries to free his arm, but it's futile. Drayvin is putting all his weight onto the back of the chair when there's a horrifying _CRACK_!

The professor cries out in agony, his elbow feeling as if it exploded. His breath is snatched from his lungs in the suffering of it and he lies motionless, his forehead pressed to the cool concrete in contrast to the searing pain in his arm. He lets his eyes close.

Drayvin smiles in amusement from his sheer love of torture. He kneels, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket, and unlocks the handcuffs from around Ashoka's wrists. The professor takes no notice of being freed.

"Get up, Ashoka," Drayvin orders. "You look pathetic."

The professor exhales heavily, mustering strength, and with his left hand gripping the table he pulls himself to his feet, careful not to move his right arm in the slightest. His face is gray with the pain he is suffering.

"You want to fight?" Drayvin taunts, waving him on. "Let's fight."

The professor accepts the challenge by pulling off the leather Flare jacket. He growls and grimaces in pain as the heavy jacket slides over his ruined arm, but feels relief when the weight of it is off him. It falls to the concrete floor. He rolls his shoulder and roughly runs his good left hand through his ebony hair, restoring it to its former crazy scientist look. His right cheek is bruised and swollen from where Drayvin struck him, limiting his vision, and his broken arm hangs limp at his side—still, even dressed in formal black Flare attire, Professor Ashoka clenches his left fist and raises it to fight. He spits more blood on the floor.

"If every one of my soldiers were as tough as you, Ashoka, I'd never have to worry again," Drayvin says, giving him a twisted complement.

"Gee. Thanks." The professor is unamused. Emotionless. Looking for a weak spot in Drayvin's form. He's had enough.

The two circle each other. "I'm curious, professor," says Drayvin. "Was it Tony Gammond? Is he the man you killed?"

"Yes," Ashoka answers.

"How did you do it?" Drayvin prods, genuinely interested. Ashoka can see it in his eyes.

"You see," says Ashoka. "I am not going to tell you. One day though, I am going to _show_ you. Because I am going to kill you the exact same way. Count on it," he promises, repeating Drayvin's own words to him from the night they first encountered in the snow. _Count on it_.

Drayvin grins knowingly. "I like your confidence. What makes you think you are getting out of this alive, professor?"

As the two had been circling each other, Ashoka had been eyeing the dagger that still remained sunken into the wooden table. Now he nears it again—he has one shot.

"This," Ashoka grins. In one fluid, instantaneous motion he tears the dagger from the table with his left hand and with a speed he didn't realize he could still gather, lunges at Drayvin.

Drayvin fumbles backward in surprise; Ashoka aims the blade straight for his chest, thinking he has him beat, but Drayvin is swift enough to deflect the professor's arm just enough so that rather than fatally piercing his heart, the dagger plunges into the admin's upper thigh.

"_Argh_!" Drayvin groans in pain, staggering. He places a hand against the wall to steady himself, furious that he has slipped up enough to let Ashoka injure him. Drayvin does not hesitate to remove the blade, however. He wraps a hand around the handle of the dagger, clenches his teeth, and pulls it from his flesh, snarling with the searing pain it brings.

Ashoka stands across the room, prepared to defend himself. When Drayvin looks up and meets the professor's eyes it is with a stare of pure rage.

"This ends now," he growls. To Ashoka's surprise, Drayvin then sheathes the dagger behind his belt and stumbles to the door, keeping one hand pressed firmly to the wound in his thigh. He exits the room, slamming the heavy door shut behind him and being certain to lock it.

Ashoka is alone once again, left with nothing but the throbbing of his head and elbow. He knows there's no way out of this. All he can possibly do is hold off Drayvin long enough for Lucan to make an escape. He hopes the boy is fairing much better than he is.

Water still drips from the ceiling.

Exhausted and in severe pain, the professor sits down at the table on the side that faces the door, across from where he was chained earlier. He gingerly touches his broken arm, testing the pain, and recoils when the slightest amount of pressure causes it to burn within. His other wounds seem insignificant compared to the pain centered around his elbow.

Before long he hears Drayvin outside the door once again.

"I'm _fine_!" Ashoka hears him snap, getting closer. "Now let me finish business!"

"But . . . sir," says a second voice. "This matter is of extreme importance. Even more so than the prisoner. Chief Vic requested—"

"Unless you want to end up _dead_, agent, I suggest you leave me be," he snarls. "I said no interruptions. I don't care what Vic requested, I will tend to it when I am finished here. If it is simply that important then you are going to wait right here and inform me only when I ask. Otherwise, get out of my sight."

" . . . Yes, sir." The agent sounds defeated. Drayvin whips the door open and Ashoka notices that the other agent does not leave. He intends to wait. Ashoka fears the urgent matter is Lucan.

Drayvin enters, limping, not bothering to shut the door behind him this time. A white fabric is tied crudely around his leg, already stained red from absorbing blood. He carries a syringe filled with orange liquid.

The professor furrows his brow, recognizing the fluid. He invented it.

"Is that my serum?"

"I knew you would recognize it," Drayvin sings, a crazed look in his eye.

"It is intended for Pokémon," Ashoka says.

"Oh, I know," Drayvin insists. "Works marvelously, too. Simply the nearest thing to mega evolution for those Pokémon who are not capable of it. You truly are a genius, Ashoka. Such a shame . . ."

The professor created the serum by demand and threat of the Flare a few months ago. It is designed to temporarily strengthen Pokémon who are fully evolved—in a way it simulates mega evolution. However, if used on a Pokémon that has not reached its final stage of evolution, the serum overpowers and kills the Pokémon. It is why it is so effective on those that _are_ fully evolved. Only the strongest can handle it, and when harnessed, that Pokémon has seemingly limitless power for the duration of the serum's effect.

Drayvin grabs the professor's left wrist, still sore from the handcuffs, and rolls up his sleeve. Dread rises within the professor as he realizes that Drayvin means to inject him with the serum. It will undoubtedly be fatal—there's no toughing it out, only an excruciating death.

But Drayvin hesitates once Ashoka's sleeve is out of the way. He can't help but ponder the burn marks he discovers scarred into the professor's forearm.

"Where did you get these burns?" Drayvin asks.

Ashoka can't answer. He meets Drayvin's fiery eyes but remains silent.

"_Where_!" he demands, seeming panicked.

"Well . . . remember the kid who had the Vulpix that you nearly killed?" Ashoka says slowly, a familiar gleam of mischievousness in his eye.

"James's boy? What does that have to do with anything?"

The professor cannot help but grin. "How do you think he got the Vulpix?"

Drayvin looks from the professor, to his burned arm, then back again. Insanity flicks across his face as he pieces everything together. "That kid is here too . . ."

"His name is Lucan," says the professor. "And he is going to be the reason the Flare will fall."

"You've just been distracting me. This _whole_ time," Drayvin's voice is rising with anger.

"Well, not really," Ashoka shrugs. "It just worked out that way."

"Agent!" Drayvin calls out into the hall. "What was that matter of importance?!"

"Intruder in the Tower, sir. Trainer disguised as an agent, concerning the theft of a Pokémon. Chief Vic requested you seek out and eliminate the threat," the agent reports.

Drayvin, for the second time this evening, is at a loss for words. The professor smiles slyly, and, seeing his amusement, Drayvin snaps. In a furious rage he tears the dagger from his belt and plunges it straight through Ashoka's upturned palm, burying it deep into the wood of the table and pinning Ashoka. The professor lets out a gasp of pain and shock, his smile being replaced with a sick grimace as blood begins to seep onto the table.

Drayvin, seeming satisfied, then thrusts the needle through the scarred skin of the professor's forearm. He finds a vein, and empties the orange fluid into Ashoka's bloodstream. The professor meets Drayvin's eyes in a stare of agony and horror, realizing what has been done, and his veins feel as if they are beginning to burn in reaction to the serum.

The admin only says, "I hope it was worth it."

Drayvin has fated Professor Ashoka to death.


	6. Chapter VI

**Chapter VI**

I hope I'm not too late.

I ditch the heavy leather Flare jacket, its weight only slowing me down. I sprint through the main corridor on the ground level of the Tower, away from the elevator and towards the exit—but I have no intention of leaving without the professor. My feet pound against the floor. I see that the bearded man still sits with his feet propped up on his desk and I burst through the security gate without the his approval, breaking the weak chain-links with my shoulder—he barely looks up from his newspaper, not having the energy nor care to try and stop me—and I make a sharp right through the stairwell door that I remember being masked with the wall, skidding as I do so.

I bound down the steps toward the basement, knowing Ashoka is _somewhere_ down there. I catch a glimpse of my watch.

_2212_.

I have time. I have time . . .

I pass a Flare agent on the stairs—he's racing up them, in as much of a mad rush as I am, probably too preoccupied with his orders to stop and question my hurry. I think he doesn't even take notice of me but then I hear him call, "Stay sharp, comrade! Trespasser in the Tower disguised as an agent. City wide orders are to kill on sight!"

"Copy that!" I shout back. He's already gone. I can't help but marvel at the stupidity of some of these Flare goons.

My heart races as I run. I reach the basement and push past the iron door that leads out of the stairwell. Given my momentum I practically slam into the wall I'm faced with before realizing that this new corridor extends to the left.

I turn . . . and I stop in my tracks.

Not far down the hall, a wiry man is exiting a room labeled _A_. He limps heavily; a bloody bandage is wrapped around the upper thigh of his left leg. I might not have recognized him if it weren't for his fiery hair—it stood out to me the night he nearly killed me too.

This man is Drayvin.

He stops to lean against the wall outside the room and re-tie the gauze around his leg. When done with that he fishes around in his pocket for something, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and lights one, taking a long drag. I slowly begin walking toward him, unsure of what to do. He only notices me when he turns his head to exhale.

He sighs, sounding irritated and exhausted. "Should've killed you when I had the chance," he mutters, then takes another puff of his cigarette. "You know every Flare agent in the district is out to execute you?" He asks me as he leans indifferently against the wall.

I don't know what I was expecting him to do when we encountered each other again . . . but this isn't it. I'm surprised by Drayvin's lack of hostility.

"Yeah . . . I know," I say slowly as Drayvin continues to smoke. I decide to get to the point. "Where's the professor?" I demand.

At this Drayvin smiles sickeningly. "Oh, should've known that's what you came down here for. He's in there dying," he says casually, motioning with his thumb over his shoulder to room _A_. "I'm curious as to how long it will take . . ."

I really can't stand this guy.

Drayvin's words change something in me. Somewhere deep within I lose a part of myself. A bit of my self-control disintegrates to nothingness as I stand before the man who is the reason my father died. I reach into the pocket of my suit jacket and pull out Fury's Poké Ball—the same Poké Ball that my father had once gripped when he too battled the Flare. I hadn't planned on using her; once I had her recovered I wanted to keep her safe until we were out of the city . . . but I'm not letting Drayvin kill Ashoka too.

Seeing the Poké Ball in my hand, Drayvin straightens himself and faces me. He drops the cigarette to the floor and puts it out with his foot. "You think you can take me . . ." he says, a hint of admiration in his voice. He reaches behind his back to grab a Poké Ball—but a look of alarm suddenly crosses his face. His belt is empty.

I don't know why he doesn't have his Pokémon with him, but I realize he's defenseless and I hesitate. If I attack a defenseless man I am no better than he is. Then I remember Professor Ashoka in the next room. I remember my father, and how he was defenseless when he was murdered—and overcome with a desire for revenge, I hear myself shout, "Go Fury!"

I release the Vulpix on Drayvin.

She lands only feet in front of him, appearing too cute to be dangerous, but Drayvin and I both know her power. Drayvin looks alarmed and limps backward a few steps whereas I stride forward.

"Fury," I say sternly, pointing a finger at the admin, "_attack_."

She listens to me. I watch in awe as she unleashes a bout of fire from her mouth, engulfing Drayvin in flames. Even from behind the inferno I raise an arm to shield my eyes and face from the intense heat. Over the roar of the fire I hear the anguished howling of Drayvin, and guilt rises within me. My first time as a true trainer, and I do this . . .

Then there's silence.

Fury finally lets the flames diminish and she sits down. She looks over her shoulder at me and cocks her head, her huge brown eyes meeting mine with absolute adoration as if to say, '_Did I do a good job_?'

Drayvin lies sprawled on the floor, face down. The entire back of his white shirt is burnt off, revealing to me the crimson, raw, scorched flesh of his back. I grimace worriedly, fearing I may have killed him, then see him stir. He groans.

I'm confused by the relief I feel.

Knowing I don't have much time I rush into room _A_ with Fury prancing at my heels. I'm forced to once again swallow my rising panic at the sight of Ashoka.

"Professor!" I gasp. He's slumped over at a table in the center of the room, his left arm extended in front of him with a knife driven through the palm of his hand and into the wood. Blood pours from the wound. The sight churns my stomach. "Professor Ashoka," I repeat harshly.

It appears as if it takes all his strength to look up at me. The entire left side of his face is severely bruised. His eyes are bloodshot, and although he is damp with sweat he shivers visibly. "James?" he says weakly.

"What did he do to you . . ." I breathe. Then I notice the empty syringe on the table. All of a sudden Drayvin's comment makes sense, '_I'm curious as to how long it will take._' Professor Ashoka was injected with something fatal.

"Stay with me, professor," I say urgently. "We're getting you out of here."

I grip the handle of the knife buried in the table with both hands, wishing I do not have to do this. I exhale slowly and silently count down.

_Three . . . two . . . one . . ._

I pull upwards on the knife with all my strength. It is freed from the wood, then from the professor's hand. What concerns me is that he doesn't even seem to notice. His forehead is rested on the table, his teeth clenched from the pain of the poison that must be much more severe than the knife wound.

I quickly take off my dark suit jacket and with the same knife cut off a sleeve. I tie the fabric tightly around Ashoka's injured hand in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"Alright, c'mon," I say, draping Ashoka's left arm over my shoulders.

I'm about to lift him when Fury's sudden cooing stops me. I turn, and am startled to see Drayvin standing in the doorway. He grips each side of the doorframe with either hand, having to hold himself up. It's clear that he is weak.

"You're not leaving," he growls.

I glance at my watch. _2248_. I don't have time for this.

"Watch me," I say with a grin, a crazy idea popping into my head.

I gently lay the professor's arm back on the table, then twist around and bolt straight for the maniacal admin with as much speed as I can build given the small distance between us. I swoop low at the last instant and my shoulder collides forcefully with his gut. I can hear the wind being driven from his lungs and he is launched into the hall, completely knocked off his feet and flung onto the floor. Drayvin's bare, scorched skin makes contact with the rough concrete first and he hisses in pain, wincing and baring his teeth as he arches his back then scrambles onto his hands and knees.

I hastily back up into the room, rolling my shoulder, now sore. Drayvin doesn't look like he'll get up again. Then something shiny on the floor grabs my attention—a pair of unlocked handcuffs lying by an upturned chair across the table from Ashoka. I can't resist.

I grab the cuffs and rush into the hall. Quickly I kneel by Drayvin and before he knows what's going on I'm tightening each of the metal cuffs around his wrists behind his back. He breathes heavily—crushed. I swiftly pat down his pockets, finding a ring of keys in one and his pack of cigarettes in the other. The keys I stuff in my own pocket, thinking that in addition to stranding him here, they may also come in handy. His cigarettes I turn and whip down the hall.

"You shouldn't smoke," I smirk at him, "it's bad for you."

"I . . . am going to kill you," he snarls.

"Not today." I stand up and pat him on the head, purposefully meaning to enrage him. Fury licks one of his forearms. I hate to disturb her fun but I will only feel safe with her in her Poké Ball in my pocket. "Fury, return," I say. I only know the correct phrasing from hearing my father use it years ago. In a red flash she is back in the Poké Ball, which I put in the pocket of my suit pants next to Drayvin's keys.

I stride back into room _A_. As a last minute thought I take the dagger from the table and stuff it behind my belt. Then I pull the professor's arm over my shoulders and lift him to his feet.

"Lucan . . . just go," he says through clenched teeth. For an instant his eyes meet mine, they are dark with agony, his face creased in pain.

"No—no way. We're getting out of here together. Right now," I insist. "Can you walk?"

"I can hardly even see, boy," he growls feebly. I take it as a good sign that he has enough vivacity in him to manage satire.

"C'mon," I say, pulling him along. We exit the room and turn right, leaving Drayvin handcuffed behind us, kneeling on the ground with nothing but his charred, orange slacks and half of his scorched shirt. Defeated.

I do not look back.

I more or less drag the professor down the hall. We pass room _B_, room _C_, making our way in the opposite direction of the stairwell. Based on a building map I got a look at earlier, around the corner and at the end of the next hall should be another stairwell that leads straight to the northern exit of the building. It's the quickest way to Lumiose's northern gates.

I'm surprised the basement is not overrun with Flare agents by now. Guess they figure wherever Drayvin is, they don't need to be.

"What time is it?" the professor rasps.

We turn the corner. I look at my watch. "Twenty-three-oh-six," I answer through strained breaths. Professor Ashoka is half a foot taller than me. This is not easy.

"Hurry," he demands.

This hallway is clear too. I discover there are rooms _G_ through _L_ in this corridor, and I see a door at the end.

"Professor," I say, "do you want to fill me in on your plan now?"

There's a pause, then, ". . . I got in . . . touch with the Rogues . . . agreed to wait no later than midnight . . . northern gates," he manages.

I get the gist of it.

"The Rogues still exist?!" I exclaim, my mind reeling.

"Stronger than ever," Ashoka pants.

Then he stumbles, incidentally causing me to stumble as well. I fall to a knee, readjust his arm around my shoulders, then continue pushing forward. We're at room _K_.

"C'mon, professor, almost there," I say. "What did he inject you with?"

"It . . . was my own formula . . . meant to simulate mega . . . evolution on . . . Pokémon not intended . . . for humans . . . fatal reaction . . ."

It is clearly a strain for him to speak. I was thinking keeping him talking may help keep him conscious, now I'm thinking better not. We reach the door—and anxiety begins to boil back up within me.

_Authorized Personnel Only_.

There's an electronic scanner for an identification card. I realize in distress that I do not have Chesper Moore's card; it is sitting in the pocket of the suit jacket that I left without a sleeve in room _A_. I look to the professor; it appears he has lost his jackets along the way as well. I assume he therefore does not have his card. Then I remember Drayvin's keys sitting in my pocket—_of course_.

The lock on the door is silver, and out of the dozen keys on the ring, only three match that color. With my free hand I fumble for one and try it . . . to no avail. However, the second key I attempt fits, and with a twist unlocks the door with a _click_.

I release the breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding and turn the handle, pushing the door open. I pull the professor through the doorway behind me and let it close. This stairwell is poorly lit and appears as if it is used less than the main one. I look up. Four sets of stairs—two flights. It's tempting to take a minute to sit and rest, but there's no time. I begin the excruciatingly slow climb up the stairs, heaving the professor with me. I'm carrying most of his weight, and it is exhausting.

"C'mon professor, stay with me, half way there," I wheeze.

"I'm slowing you down . . . Lucan . . . leave me," Ashoka insists. "Good as . . . dead anyway . . ."

"No," I growl. "We're getting out of this _together_. You're gonna be fine."

Finally we reach the top of the stairs. This door is locked as well, and I find the small silver key that did the trick the first time. It fits again, and the door _clicks_ unlocked. I turn the handle and push . . . but the door doesn't budge. Something on the other side is blocking it. I push harder, beginning to stress, and it gives way an inch with the increased force. I realize that this door leads straight outside—freezing air pours in through the crack and I see that a foot and a half of snow is preventing it from opening.

"Dammit," I curse. I look at my watch. _2320_. Running out of time. I sit the professor on the ground.

I take a few steps back then charge at the door full force, leading the way with my good right shoulder—my left shoulder is still injured from my very first encounter with Drayvin and his Houndoom. The door opens by half a foot. My shoulder aches. I charge at it again and a few more inches are given. I back up and slam myself once again into the door—and it swings wide open. I fall into the cold snow, surprised, and then see why the door gave way.

Standing above me is Minno. He pulled it open.

"You alright, Chesper?"

The brute offers me his hand. I take it. I am absolutely shocked to see him. He hasn't realized that I'm the enemy; I have to make sure he doesn't find out.

"Yeah, thanks. I'm glad to see you, Minno, I was chasing the trespasser, I saw him. He exited through this door—I think he went that way!" I point to my right, down the side of the building. "If you hurry you can still get to him, I'll catch up!"

"Copy that," he says, and the hulking man takes off through the snow. I watch him run off and take a turn around the corner of the building.

It's obvious that no one had gone that way; there aren't even any footprints in the snow. I'm grateful he's too stupid to realize that. I don't know where Sheera is, and I hope she isn't nearby. She's definitely more intelligent than her partner. I cannot believe I ran into him. I can't figure out why he is in this area anyway.

I step back into the building and crouch in front of the professor. He's pale, covered in sweat, and shivers vigorously rake his body. I touch the back of my hand to his forehead only to find it is burning hot. I get the urge to take his pulse and I press my fingers to his neck, noticing a strange, circular scorch mark as I do so—his heart races alarmingly. His eyes open weakly and it takes a moment of searching for his to find mine. His brown eyes are bloodshot and glazed over; they flutter closed after a moment.

"Professor," I say. I put a hand on his shoulder. "Professor . . . stay with me."

I look at my watch. _2328_. We're cutting it close. I grab his arm, about to pull him over my shoulder again, when suddenly he lets out a yelp of pain.

"What!" I stop, worried.

"Other arm, if you must . . ." he says. "Right . . . broken."

"That bastard broke your arm, too?" I say, enraged.

I pull the professor back to his feet by his left arm.

I force my way out into the snow, pulling Professor Ashoka behind me. The temperature has dropped drastically over the hours since we left the professor's lab, and we both are dressed only in the Flare's dark suit pants and dress shirts to defend against the cold. I still wear the crimson vest as well—I probably should've abandoned it before going outside, it makes it that much easier to be spotted. But there's no time to stop now.

I take us directly north, which luckily is a path that largely avoids the main roads. I watch my breath condense and dissipate through my gritted teeth as I pull the professor along.

We wade through the snow. The bitter cold seeps straight through the fabric of my clothing; the only beneficial things I wear are the combat boots that excel at keeping my feet dry. I hate that I had to cut my hair—the sides of my head are unusually cold where my hair once hung down. Now the hair is cut too short to be protective.

We pass darkened buildings—cafés, shops, homes. There must be people inside looking out, wondering if we're the intruders they've been hearing about this evening. I wonder if they're rooting for us or against us. I wonder if they hope they won't have to live like this forever. I wonder if they don't care.

There's surprisingly a lack of Flare agents outside. I assume it's because they are all at the Tower, trying to find the intruder. Instead, they'll find Drayvin, an embarrassment to the Flare. I hope they laugh when they see him.

We finally come to the end of an alley. We're at the northern boulevard, and directly across it is a stone archway with a massive number _14_ engraved into the rock above it. We've made it to the northern gates. Unfortunately, like they did with every gate to the city, the Flare built up wooden barricades when they rose to power—to keep citizens in and everyone else out. Two agents always stand atop the barrier, on patrol day and night.

"Professor . . . _Professor Ashoka!_" I whisper harshly. "Wake the hell up! I need you now. The northern exit is just across the boulevard and it's guarded. What do you want me to do?"

I look at my watch, glowing neon red in the night. The time reads _2350_. We have only ten minutes until our window of opportunity closes.

"Need to get across . . ." he mutters.

I sigh, gather all of my confidence, and begin to cross the street. I drag the professor with me. The men at the gate notice us before long, their Mightyenas bark. Snow begins to flutter from the sky.

"Comrades!" I call. It's a term I've heard used multiple times tonight so I use it myself. I wait until I've crossed the boulevard and am at the barrier to continue, "My partner received severe injuries from the intruder at the Tower. The headquarters is compromised so Drayvin requested I take him the next district to receive medical treatment."

I lie my ass off.

I begin to make my way up the crude stairs at the far end of the wooden barricade, pulling the professor with me. It's not that tall a barrier, perhaps eight feet high, so the arch of the actual exit isn't completely blocked off. People can still get in and out of the city if they can get past the guards. Stairs on the city side make it easier for the shift swaps.

I'm met face-to-face with a grizzly Flare agent. He appears irritated and tired.

"Your method of transportation is . . . unusual," he comments. He has an accent matching that of the man at the desk earlier.

"We were in a rush," I say.

"You want to pass, I need to see identification," he demands.

"Neither of us have our cards. We were directed to leave immediately. It's freezing out; you think I wanted to leave without my jacket?" I say boldly. My breath puffs into a fog before me. I'm nervous.

"You cannot leave the city without your identification," states the man, his eyes narrowing. Behind him his Mightyena growls.

This guy isn't letting us pass. I silently consider my options, and pick the most insane one of them all. Looking past the barrier and out of the city I exclaim, "Whoa! Look at that!"

The man turns his head, giving me the perfect angle to punch him as hard as I possibly can in the side of the face. Even with Ashoka on my shoulder I land a solid hit. The man staggers, grunting. I hurriedly step past him. The second guard and his Mightyena are advancing on me. The Pokémon has its fangs bared. There's no turning back now—I silently apologize to the professor and as quickly and carefully as I can I drop him over the side of the barricade, out of the city. Instead of hearing him land hard on the ground like I expected, I'm confused by the muffled thump I hear . . . almost sounding like someone _caught_ him.

I'm about to jump down after him when there's a sharp, piercing pain in my ankle. My foot is pulled out from under me and I slam down onto the splintery wooden floor of the barrier, landing on my chest. I look over my shoulder. The first Mightyena has its teeth sunk into my ankle and shakes it viciously. I desperately try to kick my foot away, to free myself, but it's useless. I turn back around just in time to raise my arms and prevent the second Mightyena from burying its teeth in my face. Rather it clamps down on my forearm.

"_Agh_!" I let out a howl of pain.

The one that has my ankle releases it and decides to instead bury its teeth in my side. I try to twist around in an attempt to get it off, exposing my head in doing so. One of them then slashes my face with its claws. I recoil in pain. They have me overpowered. At least Professor Ashoka will make it.

I've nearly succumbed to being mauled when I look up, and through a flurry of teeth and fur and claws, I can make out a figure climbing the side of the barricade. He goes unnoticed by the Flare guards, and then he's out of my sight.

A moment later, over the ferocious growls and snarls of the Mightyenas, I hear a man call out, "Greninja! Use hydro pump!"

Instantaneously there's a colossal blast of water. It gains in pressure and intensity until the Mightyenas are dragged off my body, clawing me as they go. The Flare guards are thrown straight from the barricade, landing somewhere in the snow with their Pokémon. The water then ceases. I lay drenched, stunned, and unbelievably freezing on the floor of the barrier.

"Greninja, return," the same deep voice commands, cool and collected.

I push myself to my knees, hair dripping, and a firm hand on my arm pulls me to my feet. I look up into the wild blue eyes of the dark haired man who rescued me. His hair is buzzed short; stubble grows gruffly over his face. He wears dark cargo pants and a combat sweater. Most importantly, at his belt are three red and white Poké Balls.

"Lucan Akairo?" The man asks. I nod, and then cough, water having made its way into my lungs. "Jaseph Darcy," he says, extending his hand. I grasp it in a firm handshake. "Your father was a great man."

* * *

At the Tower, Drayvin sits cross-legged on the floor of the basement. He does not lean against the wall—his back is too tender to do so. His wrists are raw and bloody from the handcuffs binding him. Blood drips from the stab wound in his leg; the bandage is saturated with blood, needing to be changed.

The door to the stairwell opens. Drayvin doesn't turn his head. He knows who it is. Her heels strike the concrete with every slow, deliberate step. She stops before him, dropping a belt of black and gray Poké Balls onto the floor.

"You left these upstairs," she says coldly. She pauses, and then continues, "An agent told me you were down here. I did not realize this is what I would find."

Drayvin says nothing.

"Your first week in Lumiose and this is what you allow? I just received a report from the patrolmen at the Route Fourteen gate. Those two _escaped_. They left the city. Is that acceptable to you?" The woman's voice is calm but infuriated.

Drayvin does not respond. He does not even meet her eyes.

"You have nothing to say for yourself? Fine." She lets a small ring of keys fall to the concrete in front of him. "Get yourself out of those cuffs then. Once you do, and are capable of speaking again, I require your presence in my office."

She begins to walk away, then stops. "Oh, and Drayvin—you do something as _idiotic_ as this again, and I'll have you transferred back to your brother's district faster than you realize."

And with that, Chief Victoria is gone.

* * *

**_Author's Note_****_— _**_Reviews guys? __Please let me know what you think. The feedback means more than you know.  
_


End file.
